The Diary of a Transposer
by Civic31
Summary: AU. He sits on a balcony ledge, haunted by a past that refuses to let him go. She barricades herself in walls, emptying out a heart which threatens to swallow her whole. Lost in the ordered chaos that is New York City, two broken people stumble upon each other and find their lives colliding in more ways that one. A Shuffle Production, written in diary form.
1. Different Stars

I own not these words or the worlds they create, for they are merely devices I use to sort out the musings of my tortured mind & imagination. All I can claim possession of is the prison in which these words are confined to.  
-Disclaimer-

* * *

**Different Stars – Trespassers William**

_So I will hum alone, too far from you  
__All that I say now is nothing to you  
__We will lie under different stars  
__I am where I am, and you're where you are  
__You're where you are_

* * *

-Inuyasha-

It's a simple melody that flows through my veins. Away from my heart, away from the pain. That's the aim, anyways. But the word can only heal so much. It still leaves scars. It still rips my chest open every time I hear it. It still makes me cry.

And the sky is black tonight. Like it's never been before. Probably because I know you can't see it. After all, you can't see the stars if you're one of them. How does it feel to be cloaked by an inky darkness, unable to be seen when the sun shines? Is it lonely? Does it hurt? Hurt to know that from here, where I stand, we can never reach?

I found Polaris last night, in my search of you. Fell asleep under her soft light. And then she sent me dreaming. Dreaming of a day we never met, dreaming of a time when I was free. Free from your presence. Free from the hold that you constantly have on me, even when you're so far away.

Do you ever dream? Dream of the day we first locked eyes, gazes caught in each other's shadows as we lay on the ground? I remember it was raining, yet the sun still peeked through the clouds. A sun-shower. The perfect compliment between rain and shine.

You really wanted that cab. Seems I wanted it more. Never has anyone ever jumped in front of a cab that I have stolen from them. That's the kind of thing people do in the movies. But this was reality. You were my reality. With your hair tangling in the wind, your broken heel making you appear lopsided, and the rain plastering your white blouse to your chest, I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful.

The look that you had on your face is still haunting. That icy glint in your grey irises, the deep red of your lips as you fashioned them into a scowl, the slight shiver of your body as the rain poured down harder. So hauntingly stunning.

You ran in front of that cab, stuck your foot in front of the bumper and stood there head held high, while thunder boomed in the background. Or at least it became the background. Because it was that moment, when you became the focal point. The focal point in the painting which even now is etched upon the inside of my eyelids. My focal point.

It's amazing how we ever got your heel out of the cab's bumper. Afterwards, we even joked about it.

"I was on my way to the airport to pick up my sister." You told me, laughter in your eyes. "And you know what a stickler she is for punctuality."

Punctuality. The act of arriving or taking place at an arranged time. You always were punctual. Perhaps too punctual. Because look at us now. Look at what your obsession with being on time has done to us.

It's made us slaves. Slaves to our own mortality, with time being an instrument we use torture ourselves as we wait. It changed our times so you became early. Far too early, compared to my own lateness. And I was late in every sense.

Sometimes I wish we'd never met. Just like in my dream. But then I remember. I remember your face. I remember the look in your eyes as we fell to the ground after giving your heel one last yank, the cab driver's heavy Russian accent yelling into his cell-phone fading into the background. It was hope. And as we hit the ground, the heel tumbled on the concrete in between us, and we both grabbed for it. And we stared at that shoe, that stupid shoe, for a moment, before finally seeing our shadows intertwined on the pavement. And then we looked up at each other. And you smiled at me. That is until you realized I had stolen your cab, then your scowl slid back on and you let me have it. And I took it. Because I had just been given proof that there was such a thing as love at first sight.

Except, as I calmed you down and you offered to share the cab with me, I didn't realize what the price would be. I didn't think that we would ever get to this point, where you would leave and I'd be left behind. I didn't think of any of that at all. My mind was too full of you.

And so yeah, sometimes I wish we'd never met. Because the pain is overwhelming at times. It gets to be too much. And then I'm left with the task of finding release. Sometimes it's drugs. Often it's alcohol. Recently it's the balcony to my apartment. There's an odd sense of freedom you get when you stand on the edge; halfway on the concrete, halfway on air, and that thin line of pure edge, where everything becomes hazy.

Sometimes, when I'm making wishes, I think about what we could've had. What we wanted. What we planned on getting. Usually I make these wishes on Polaris. She seems to know that I need them. Seems to feel my pain. She sings to me sometimes, always the same song. The same desolate song, with lyrics that I locked inside my head, ever since you left. She always uses your voice too.

And when I'm standing on the edge, I can hear her, no, you, with perfect clarity. And your voice lulls me to sleep. Sometimes it calls out to me, tempting me, caressing me, trying to get me to step off the ledge. And though I've reached out too many times to count, I can never find the strength to grasp the hand you've offered me.

Often I wonder why I write these thoughts down. Little letters from my mind to yours. I know you'll never get the chance to read them. You'll never get the chance to hold the paper and breathe in the subtle scent of a blank page. And I'll never get the chance to hear you say my name again.

But what kills me the most is that you can't see the stars right now. And that I can't see you.

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A/N: Awaiting reviews.


	2. Getting Away With Murder

I own not these words or the worlds they create, for they are merely devices I use to sort out the musings of my tortured mind & imagination. All I can claim possession of is the prison in which these words are confined to.  
-Disclaimer-

* * *

**Getting Away With Murder – Papa Roach**

_It is impossible  
__To never tell the truth  
__But the reality is  
__I'm getting away with murder_

* * *

Kagome

I'm starting to scare myself. It's getting worse. Like, it's beginning to become a problem. It's practically an addiction. I'm just spiralling down the rabbit hole and there is no end in sight. I can't seem to stop. It's at the point where I'm unconsciously letting them out of the caged prison that is my mind. And I don't even realize it.

And I think Miroku's beginning to figure it out. He's starting to see through them. Sometimes I can hear it in his voice when we're talking on the phone. The doubt, the worry. It's even worse in person. I can see him staring at me, that look in his eyes, piercing straight into me. It's moments like that when I know he knows. But he hasn't figured out why yet. And I need to keep it that way.

It was never this bad when you were here. I mean, sure, you instigated a little bit of it, but I mean, you were the oldest; you were bound to get a little more attention than me. And of course Souta got more attention than me. But it was only to be expected, right? After all, the middle child usually gets neglected. It's just the way the world works.

And I never hated you for it. Was I jealous of you at times? Yes, but I never hated you. I could never hate you. We're family.

I don't understand why you had to leave though. I don't understand why you were taken before your time. What a stupid concept. 'Taken before your time.' How can you be taken from something that you have no control over? We don't own time. Sure we can pretend with our stopwatches and clocks, but in actuality, they do nothing. Nothing but countdown our own miserable ends.

And it isn't fair. I need you. You can't be gone. You can't have left. What am I supposed to do now? Who am I supposed to go to now when the urge becomes too strong?

Not Sango. She's even worse than Miroku. I can't even look her in the eye anymore. And I can't use them on her either. She's too perceptive, too nosy. Every time she sees me, she asks me what's wrong. What am I supposed to say to that? Am I supposed to tell her? That I feel like nothing? That no matter what I do, it won't matter? Not with your memory so fresh in people's minds. Every time I hear your name now, it's like a blow to the chest. And I hear it all the time. People can't get enough of it. It's on the news, it's on the radio. It's on people's lips as I pass by them on the subway. And I'm getting sick of it.

Yes, you were great. A great performer, an amazing vocalist. People still can't believe that you're dead.

Yeah, I can say it. Dead. That's what you are. Nothing more, nothing less. Just another person who ceases to exist in this realm we call home.

But home's not home anymore. Not without you. Why were you always so giving? Why did you make me need you, make me develop this horrible child-like dependency on you? Why did you have everybody wrapped around your pretty little fingers? Why was I the one who was wrapped the tightest?

I hear them mention your name like they knew you. It's always like that on the TV. But you liked it. You always loved the limelight. And I can't never hope to take your place.

Mom says nobody could've done anything. She says, "What will be, will be and we must forge along." Que sera, sera. But how can I do that? How can I move past this? You were the key to everything, and without you, everything that I was aiming for, everything I was trying to achieve is now locked away in a place that I can no longer access.

I used to wish you would disappear. But not like this, never like this. Because I still need you. I need you so that you can help me get over this. Before you were going to get me help. Professional help. Like a shrink or something. And I was totally opposed to it at first. But then you said you'd go with me. You said you would be right by my side the entire time. You promised. But how are you going to do that now?

You used to always keep your promises. You used to tell me, "Kagome, when I say I promise, I mean it." Guess what? You lied.

Which is ridiculously ironic. The one time you lie. To me of all people. The one who has the problem. You sure have a funny way of showing the world my deficiencies. You know I can't help it. You know the words just slip past my lips whenever I don't want to acknowledge the truth. You know it's compulsive, border-line obsessive. But it gives me a thrill. To know that someone has total belief in the words I say. To know that each deceitful word, each fallacy, each complete fabrication is considered to be truth by the unknowing recipient. It's powerful. Commanding. It's like finding a $20 bill and realizing, you don't have to return it to anyone. And I like it. I think I like it too much.

It's got to stop. It's affecting others in horribly negative ways. Mom's beginning to believe that Souta is a delinquent now. She's beginning to believe that he's actually doing drugs. The drugs which mysteriously appear in hidden places in his bedroom. The drugs which he vehemently refuses to claim, as he "doesn't know how they got there" and "no, he's not even holding them for a friend."

But I know the truth. I know how they get there. Because I put them there. If only to put the focus on him. Because I'm starting to get accustomed to being unnoticed. I'm starting to crave the anonymity which before I so desperately wished to be free of. And without you here, there's nobody to pull me out of this whirlwind of depression that I'm falling into.

The funeral's tomorrow. It's supposed to be an open casket. I don't think I can handle it.

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**A/N:** Seriously peeps? No reviews for Chapter 1? I know it's confusing now, but come on! Have a little faith! Awaiting reviews ... STILL!**  
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	3. High & Dry: Kagome's Entry

I own not these words or the worlds they create, for they are merely devices I use to sort out the musings of my tortured mind & imagination. All I can claim possession of is the prison in which these words are confined to.  
-Disclaimer-

* * *

**High & Dry - Radiohead**

_You'd kill yourself for recognition,__  
__Kill yourself to never ever stop__  
__You broke another mirror,__  
__You're turning into something you are not_

* * *

Kagome

I'm sorry.

I am so, so very sorry.

And I know those words don't mean much, but for whatever their worth, I mean them.

First off, I honestly – now there's irony – tried to show up. Mom was telling me I had to go, and you know I can't deny her anything. For the life of me I wish I could, but with you gone I don't want to cause her any unnecessary stress. She doesn't need that right now. I have enough depression within me for the both of us.

But that's not what I'm apologizing for. I'm apologizing for the lying. I didn't mean to. I swear. It just happened. But as soon as he called me by your name, a haunted look in his eyes, I just couldn't help it. It was like, for once, somebody was looking at me like I was worth something. Somebody other than you was looking at me like I meant something to them.

So I said, "Yes."

I looked that man straight in the eyes, and pretended I was you. Pretended I was a beautiful, talented singer. Pretended I was a loved, engaged woman. Pretended I was a rich and inspiring role model.

I lied.

It was just supposed to be another trip. Another trip on the subway. Just your average, every-day trip on the subway. Afterwards, it was supposed to be bad. When I got to the cemetery, that's when the world was supposed to fall apart. Not before.

I was sitting in my seat, iPod in, trying to block out the world. Then he appeared out of nowhere. He had been pushing people out of the way, trying to get to the last open seat at the back when he stepped on my foot.

Usually I would've just let it go. Usually I would've lied to myself, embraced the pain. But this time, I didn't want to. This time when it hurt, I wanted to pass it off to someone else. There's only so much pain a person can take.

So I said "Ow!"

I know. Not the most earth-shattering statement. But it got the point across. It took me out of the sidelines and put me in the middle of the field.

He turned around, probably to give some half-assed apology. But then he saw my face.

He must've thought it was you. He must have. Because no one would ever look at me like that. No one would ever send that kind of expression my way.

He stared for a good moment. Eyes at attention, mouth dropped and open wide. And then he said it. Your name. 5 little letters which cause me so much grief.

And I don't even remember what I was thinking at that moment. Probably wasn't even thinking at all. But you know the drill. The words come out whether I want them to or not. I have no say in the matter, yet I'm the only one speaking.

But that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was hearing his next words. I don't remember what he looked like. Hell, I'll probably never see him again. But I will forever remember his words, because he saw right through me. Just like you often did.

Except he didn't pity me. Not when he called me out for what I really am.

"Liar."

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**A/N:** Are you people trying to tell me something? No reviews...STILL! Gimme something! Please! Anything! A letter. A happy face. A sad face! Just please, gimme something!


	4. High & Dry: Inuyasha's Entry

I own not these words or the worlds they create, for they are merely devices I use to sort out the musings of my tortured mind & imagination. All I can claim possession of is the prison in which these words are confined to.  
-Disclaimer-

* * *

**High & Dry - Radiohead**

_It's the best thing that you ever had,__  
__The best thing you ever had has gone away._

* * *

-Inuyasha-

I couldn't do it.

I was going to force myself. I was going to make myself walk right up there and I was going to hold your cold pale hands. I was going whisper words in your ears, even though I knew you couldn't hear them. I was going to kiss your dull pink lips even though you wouldn't be able to kiss back.

But I couldn't even make it to the gates.

You have to forgive me though. I was on my way. I swear it.

But after hallucinating on the train…

She looked just like you. Well, mostly. I've never seen you in such a lifeless state. It was like you were half dead, sitting there by yourself on the train, blocking out the world with earphones in your ears.

You looked lost.

You looked lost and forlorn, and utterly hopeless. And my heart broke just looking at you. It broke all over again.

And I was in shock. I mean, I know you're gone, but I guess I had this hope. A hope that everything was just a dream, just a horrible nightmare that I hadn't woken from yet. But it's not. And you're not. And I'm back at the beginning again.

I watched from a distance at first. And I realize now that I was awkwardly staring at some random girl for an obscene amount of time. But I don't think anyone noticed. The girl sure didn't. I think someone could've keeled over with a gunshot wound and she wouldn't have been the wiser.

She was fragmented. It's the only way I can think to describe her. Like she was missing a piece of herself. She didn't smile. Didn't show any expression at all. Just sat there, eyes focused on her feet, stationary, even though the train was jerking around every few seconds. She must've been a regular commuter.

But that's all I remember about her. Because soon, I started to recognize the similarities. Soon I was so transfixed, that she became you, and you became her. A rather shattered looking version of yourself, but you all the same. You two could've been twins.

And that's when I lost my mind for a second or two. Because I had to touch you. I had to hear your pulse, hear the sound of your heart pumping blood all through your body. I had to make sure it wasn't a dream.

So I walked up towards you, and slightly chickened out. I realized that if this was dream, I didn't want it to end. I didn't want you to leave me, again. So I stepped on your foot.

I heard the shift of a shoe, followed by a practically silent gasp. And then I heard the intake of breath.

So I whirled around, finally ready to see you again, hear your voice again. And right before my eyes, was you. Nothing but you. An angry little frown on your face indicated your anger, and I was brought back to the first time we met, when you had that same expression on your face. You were achingly beautiful.

I couldn't help but say your name. That three-syllable name that just rolls off the tongue so easily. But it was my mistake, because you started to fade away. You slowly disappeared only to leave that random girl in your place.

And that's when it all went to hell. All because she spoke, all because she answered. She responded, with a simple "Yes."

And it was like she knew you. Like she wanted to be you. And there was this odd look in her eyes; it could've been surprise. Or maybe it was anticipation. Maybe it was bit of both. But that look, it was like she was waiting for me to do something.

But I didn't know what she wanted. And I certainly wasn't going to pretend she was you for her benefit.

So I got angry. She was a liar. Pretending to be someone that she's not, not even caring about the people she was fooling along the way. So I told her so. I told her what she was. And then I left.

And while I know I should've gone straight to the service, I couldn't do it. Not after seeing you on the train. Not after watching you leave again. I couldn't bear to see your face one last time. Couldn't bear to see that lid close on you. Couldn't bear to see them bury you under the ground, shovels throwing dirt on top of the tiny little box they stuck you into.

So instead, I came here. Back to the balcony. Our balcony. Thinking of you. Still.

Although one small part of my brain can't help but wonder, what kind of sick person pretends to be somebody who's dead?

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**A/N:** Thank you for the reviews! I love you guys for them and I am anticipating more, but I shall stop being a freak about them. And for those confused, the next chapter should clear up any confusion.


	5. Santa Monica

I own not these words or the worlds they create, for they are merely devices I use to sort out the musings of my tortured mind & imagination. All I can claim possession of is the prison in which these words are confined to.  
-Disclaimer-

* * *

**Santa Monica – Theory of a Deadman**

_Her mind's made up  
__The girl is gone  
__And now I'm forced to see  
__I think I'm on my way  
__Oh, it hurts to live today  
__Oh and she says  
__"Don't you wish you were dead like me?"_

* * *

Kagome

"You need closure."

That's what Mom keeps telling me.

She tells me, "This, this depression is something you can overcome. You just need to be open to it. And ever since your sister… Well, you need closure. Your father would not want his youngest daughter to live like this."

But who is she to tell me what I need? She has no idea what it's like. She wasn't there. Neither were you. Nobody was there. Except for me. Me and the bastard who put me in this position. And Dad…

No, I can't go there. I won't go there. I'm not ready. I'm not ready to remember, not ready to face those demons. But nobody cares about what I want apparently, because while I've repressed the memories long enough that I can't remember them, since you've been gone, they've started to resurface.

Sometimes it's an image that cuts through my vision, piercing reality. More often than not it's the salty scent of blood that fills my nostrils, slowly suffocating me. Most people assume I'm having an asthma attack during these episodes, and they pounce on my purse, desperately searching for a non-existent inhaler. I can't tell you how many times someone has called 9-1-1; the paramedics know me by name now. It's laughable really.

But the worst occurrences happen at night. When I'm sleeping. When I can't run away.

Mom's tried countless times to snap me out of the nightmares, but it's no use. I seize up and shudder uncontrollably and there's not a damn thing she can do about it. EMS knows where we live now, they know Mom's voice by heart.

How utterly pathetic.

Usually, the nightmares only ever have Dad in them. On the worst nights, the asshole that killed him makes an appearance. Recently they've started to feature you. In fact, you starred in the one last night.

It started off with Dad, in the moments I saw him last. Just flashes really, one of him straining with the bastard who tried to grab me, another of pure darkness, just black surrounding me. And that sound, that guttural sound of a gunshot followed by a bullet ripping into flesh, echoed in depths of the abyss that is my subconscious mind. And then the dim light offered by a nearby streetlight painted the final scene; Dad, mangled and broken on the ground, fading footsteps the only sound I could hear. And then suddenly it was you sprawled out on the ground, blood staining your face, eyes open but unseeing. Just like Dad. It was terrifying.

And it only got worse. Because then you started to move, and the sound of your bones snapping got increasingly louder with every movement you made. And your eyes rolled towards the back of your head as you faced me, practically hanging out of their sockets. And your arms, reaching out towards me as you spoke, Dad's voice low and raspy spilling out your bruised mouth.

"Don't you wish you were dead like me?"

But the scariest part was yet to come. Because right after that, I started to lean forward, my hand extended towards yours.

I woke up after that. I wish I could forget it. But even if I try it'll still be there, at the back of my mind, waiting for me to get vulnerable, waiting for me to fall asleep.

Hence the pot. At first I bought it to get Mom off my back, sneaking it into Souta's room, getting her all worked up over him. But then after you left, you started sneaking into my dreams so I started using it, smoking it. I find it mellows me out, makes everything hazy so that I can't remember. Too bad I can't smoke it at home.

So I'm off to your house. Your apartment actually. It's far enough away that I truly feel alone, and isolated enough that I know no one will bother me. Plus I have an excuse. Mom's asked me to start sifting through all of your crap, put it into boxes for storage so we can sell the place. I'd try to convince her to keep it so that I can move in, but it wouldn't go down well. That and it would make her unhappy.

And we both know I can't stand to make Mom unhappy. She's already sacrificed so much. She's already lost too much.

So I won't stay here just so that she can watch me self-destruct. I can find other places to do that. And I only need to do it once in a while… once per week… every day.

And so denial becomes the most beautiful word that has ever deigned to grace these lips. Denial allows me to pretend the world is a wonderland when in reality, it is turned upside down and inside out. Denial makes reality cease to exist, and changes the world around me into a paradise. A paradise that is still waiting to be found.

You told me, "Stop living in denial Kagome."

I don't think I can.

You said, "If you truly want to overcome your depression, you have to be willing to fight against the harsh reality of your life."

But what if I've lost the will to fight? What if, now that you're gone, there's nothing really left for me to fight for?

You even made me promise. "Say it Kagome. Say that you won't give up. Say that you'll try. Say that you'll keep on trying, no matter what."

But you have become a matter. And it is no longer just a matter of 'what'. Because I'm not you. I don't always keep my promises.

I can hear Mom's footsteps slowly creeping up the stairs. She's taken to checking up on me. Me, a 21 year-old woman who's in university with a mother that feels the need to periodically check in on her daughter, just to make sure she's still breathing.

It's ridiculous. It's upsetting. It's slowly taking its toll on Mom. I wish it didn't.

Though, I've learned to not wish on God for anything; the act is just full of half-truths and empty promises. So instead, I've started to wish on the stars. Surely they must have a better return policy since you were so obsessed with them.

There's one bright one that occasionally appears on the thick blanket of sky. A dash of white on a backdrop of ebony canvas. I remember the day when you introduced me to the stars, to the unknown world above our own.

"OK Kagome. Look up there. See where I'm pointing? To that one bright star up there? Can you see it?"

I stood beside you, stretched up on my 5-year-old tip toes, straining to see the little light in the sky from our balcony.

"I see it! I see it Kikyo! It's moving!" I gasped, pointing to a red dot that slowly made its way between one skyscraper to the next.

You chuckled lightly. "No Kagome. That's an airplane. You know? Like the ones Daddy flies?"

I stared at you for a moment, thinking hard. "Is Daddy in that one? Is he flying that aer-o-plane right now?" I asked.

"No. Right now he's flying over Europe, to Spain. Remember? Where they play with the bulls?" You answered sagely. Even at the age of 11 you were a genius.

Snickering, I put my hands on my head, index fingers curled outwards and pawed my foot on the ground. "Toro, toro!" I shouted. Ramming my head into your side, we tumbled down.

Laughing at my impression of a matador facing off with a bull, you started tickling me, grabbing my sides as I tried to squirm away from you.

"I ca… I can't…can't…bre…breath…eathe!" I managed to say between giggles.

I rolled over a few times, evading your hands, before I looked up.

"Kikyo? Is that it?" Lying down, I pointed up to a lone star in the sky, a dim light surprisingly visible considering we were in the city.

Crawling over, you dropped down beside me, using my tiny finger as a beacon.

"Hey, you found it!" Your eyes crinkled slightly as you smiled at my deduction skills. "Wanna know what its name is?

I nodded, waiting patiently.

"It's called…" You paused, drawing out the suspense. You and your dramatic pauses. "Sirius."

"Huh?" I turned my head towards you, confused. "What's it called?"

"I just told you." You replied, a slightly annoyed tone drifting into your words. "Sirius."

"Serious about what?" I asked, still confused. "You haven't even told me what it's name is yet!"

"No, no. That's the name. Sirius. Not serious, you silly goose." You told me, ruffling my hair.

"Are you serious?" I giggled, laughing at my clever use of words.

You started laughing too. "Yes, I'm serious."

What happened to that girl? To that cheerful, witty little girl who thought the world of her older sister? To the playful girl who never held back a smile? Where did she go? When did she disappear?

I don't know. And I wish I did.


	6. Is Anybody Home?

I own not these words or the worlds they create, for they are merely devices I use to sort out the musings of my tortured mind & imagination. All I can claim possession of is the prison in which these words are confined to.  
-Disclaimer-

* * *

**Is Anybody Home? – Our Lady Peace**

_Hey, is anybody home?  
__Has anybody wasted tears  
__On loneliness that everyone becomes?_

_Is anybody low?  
__Has anybody painted fear  
__On bedroom walls that everyone becomes?_

* * *

Kagome

Somebody broke into your house. Apartment. Whatever. Somebody broke in.

And while the stupid cops don't believe me, I know it's true. I was at your place last week and stuff's missing. Stuff I didn't pack up. Stuff that wasn't even in plain sight; they were hidden away in that box you keep in the closet. You know the one. The box for the digital alarm clock that has an iPod dock? Yeah, that box.

There was a lot of weird shit in that box. I snooped through it the day you died. I'm sure it all held relevance, but I mean, a broken heel off a pump? Seriously? Why would you keep something like that? I don't get it. I probably never will.

I think there was a chain with a breast cancer pendant on it inside the box, if my memory serves correct. Again, a mystery. There's no one in our family whose ever had breast cancer, so I don't know why you had that either. I recognized the bright blue guitar pick I've had since 9th grade in there, even though I never saw or heard you play guitar once while you were alive. Why did you steal that from me anyways? It was mine. I took it back if you're wondering.

But I wonder why somebody took all that stuff in the first place. I mean, who would want a box full of worthless crap anyway if it held no sentimental value towards them?

And it doesn't look like they took much else. Just the photo that used to hang on the wall by the north window. The photo of us that was taken 2 years ago, standing in front of the huge sakura tree in the backyard. The back was dated: Souta age 15, me age 19 and you age 25. All 3 of us were smiling, you with your arm around Souta, leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek, him squirming under your grasp, thinking it's uncool to get a kiss from his sister. And then me, smiling while yanking on Dad's arm, who was already half-in half-out of the frame. He was trying to grab Buyo who was too busy pouncing on some pigeons. A week later and he was dead.

The world has a disturbing sense of humour that way.

Cops, on the other hand, do not.

I mean, all I wanted to do was smoke my dope and maybe get a little packing done. All I wanted to do was numb myself to the point where everything stops moving.

But no. When the world wants to ruin someone's plans, it doesn't do anything half-assed.

Because when I walked up to your apartment door, it was unlocked. Generally, I wouldn't have noticed this, except I was pretty alert because you know, I hadn't started smoking anything yet. So yeah, the unlocked door rang a few little warning bells off in my head. Not that I listened to them. I just acknowledged that I was probably doing something very stupid walking into an apartment with a door that shouldn't be open and continued to do it.

And so, slowly stepping in, I carefully swept the place with my eyes, not noticing anything out of the ordinary except for the smell. It was… off. The air was cold, like all of the windows had been open forever, and the scent of garbage wafted out, clinging to the walls.

As I walked into the dimly lit kitchen, I heard it. The dull scratch of a pencil on paper. I don't know when I became so attuned to the sound, maybe it's because it's all I ever truly hear anymore, but as faint as it was, I could still hear it.

It was coming from the balcony. And though the blinds were closed, the sliding door was opened halfway, and through it I could hear the sound of someone writing furiously.

Now I'm not the genius you were, but I'm not stupid either. I know going up to confront a complete stranger who has managed to penetrate the safety of your home is not a good idea. But, there was a still a little curiosity. And I probably should've been scared. I probably should've been freaking out, another episode occurring in the middle of the dining room floor. After all, this probably should've triggered some sort of memory, the situation the way it was. But it didn't. So I made things worse.

I quietly made my way to your bedroom towards the curtained window that somewhat overlooks the balcony. Gently moving the edge of the curtain an inch to the right, I freed a sliver of the window and took a wary peek around the curtains.

Because of the angle I couldn't see the jerk-off's face. Which is a pity, because man I would've loved to picture the look in eyes when a tiny girl like me with an Excalibur crossbow pointed an arrow at his dick. It would've been classic.

But I could see what he was wearing. A simple yet expensive looking white button-up shirt coupled with what looked like dress pants. Which was odd, because what kind of burglar wears fancy clothes to a heist? But that wasn't the only odd thing about the situation. He was lying face down diagonally, with his arms propping himself up as he wrote, and pretty much his entire bottom half, legs and all were hanging off the edge of the balcony.

I'm sorry, but why? He didn't look like he was contemplating suicide, but he sure didn't seem to care that he was precariously balancing on the edge of life and death. It's like he didn't even notice that half of his body had nothing but air underneath it.

At this point, I noticed the box beside him, open, a few miscellaneous items scattered around him, and the photograph set on the edge of the book he was writing in. And I started to get more than a little pissed off. I mean, this ass-hat was touching shit that didn't belong to him, in your house, with no goddamned respect for anything or anyone at all.

Any normal person would've high-tailed it out of there and went downstairs to call the police and let management know what was going on. You would've done that. But I'm not you. And, if anything was to prove that, it would be how differently we each handle our anger.

So instead, I walked over to your closet, grabbed the Excalibur's case and quietly unzipped it open, ears attentively listening for any sounds that the burglar might be making.

Picking it up, I grasped its smooth handle, remembering my love for archery, influenced by you. You were one of the best archers out there in your time, getting hooked on the sport when you first watched Pocahontas. And then I would watch you shooting arrows at homemade targets in the backyard, wishing I could be as graceful and poised as you. As always, I wanted to be just like you.

I realized I wouldn't be able to hit the guy, even in such close proximity. I suck at straight line shots in short range. We both know I was only ever able to hit the most ridiculous targets at my best. Plus I was rusty. I haven't picked up a bow and arrow in a good 2 years. But I was angry. That's the only excuse I've got.

Finding an arrow randomly placed on your dresser, I sat the Excalibur on the ground and stepped on the end, swiftly nocking the arrow into place, wincing when I released my foot and the sound of the trigger loudly clicked into place. Hearing nothing, I crept up to the sliding door, back against the wall.

Then my cell phone rang.

Starting at the sound, I dropped the crossbow, flinching as the trigger released the arrow. Booking it out of the apartment, a string of curses behind me told me the arrow was shot in the direction of the open door, and judging by the tone of the burglar's voice, it hit its mark. Of course, only when it's a complete accident on my part.

I've never ran so fast in my life. Not during a game of tag from when we were young. Not during the 5km runs in high school whenever we had Phys Ed. Charging down the hallway I had to have broken some kinda world record as I ran to the elevator, jamming the Lobby button with my fingers, frantically peering out between the closing doors. And when they finally shut, I collapsed to the floor, breathing a sigh of relief.

It took a minute for me to realize that my cell was still ringing. And now that my life wasn't in immediate danger, I found I had renewed anger. Especially at the idiot who was calling me.

So without even checking Caller ID, I answered it.

"What the fuck do you want? Do you realize you just put my LIFE in jeopardy you dipshit?"

Don't judge. It was well deserved. Sango most definitely deserved the ass-whipping she got. Because all the events that occurred after that single phone call, happened because of her.

Because of her, I had to explain my seemingly uncalled outburst. Because of her, Mom found out what happened and freaked the hell out calling Miroku, who as you know conveniently lives next door and forced him to come to the apartment building while she drove to the police station and picked up Souta. And because of her, not only did the cops let the bastard get away because she parked her car in a No Parking Zone, but my weed got taken away as well after she found it in the pockets of my jacket, insisting that she was cold and needed to borrow it.

Bitch.

So now I'm stuck here in the police station, surrounded by morons as I sit and wait. Sit and wait for these idiots to get their shit together so that I can less than patiently explain to them exactly what the hell happened in your apartment.

And I don't know how many times I've embellished the story in my head. I don't know how many times I'll embellish the story to the cops. I don't know even how I can detail the truth, the real truth, to you right now.

But I do know two things.

I know that when I tell the cops the story, they won't be able to pick out the lies from the truth. If I even bother to leave any truth for them to find.

And even more?

I know that I don't really want them to catch the bastard. Because I pity him. I pity him because I think he knows you. I pity him because I think he misses you. I pity him because he's broken, just as broken as I am, even if it's not for the same reason.

And somewhere deep inside of me, I envy him. I envy his ability to not give a shit whether he lives or dies. I envy the fact that he can so easily make the decision to hang off your balcony, just to feed the emptiness inside.

And that is what truly scares me. Because that little piece of knowledge just lets me know how much more of a fucked-up person I really am.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm not exactly pleased with this chapter. I think it's the ending, it just doesn't sit well with me. But unfortunately I am a slave to the lyrical value of words and so it stays.

_I require sustenance in the form of reviews._


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